voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice voice

There is a throat, made perhaps from rock and shade, which is how the wind travels.

There is a belly, made perhaps from hunger and desire. Butterflies flutter there.

A pure landscape hungrily swallowed whole, from the throat to the belly. Pure, without swallowing. Whole, with everything.

 

There flies fly free, amid the blue shadows cast by the brambles, forever intertwined with the dry, brittle grass. Blue shadow and golden straw set like a royal jewel in the infinitesimal paroxysm of matter. Dream matter. Bzzz bzzz bzzz bzzz…

 

I speak of the emptiness of the body in which the voice gathers momentum, that overcrowded inner emptiness. The last station of the wave that will soon become a voice.

 

An enormous, total wave colored by the journey. From what galaxy, time, or puddle? How many breasts has it passed through?

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the wave comes, hold on. The dimensional leap is the most common way for worlds to advance in polyphony toward beauty. It is very beautiful to be a lake. A tiny stone makes a lake ripple all the way to the shore but it never ruffles it.

 

The void is a capricious wave’s favorite place, crossing times and worlds without beginning or end, bouncing back.

 

We prepare the body because we want to, the host’s pleasure. A tremendous honor.

 

We arrange an ecosystem of longing, dreams, and snot like a basin embroidered with mint and spearmint lace. It is cool on the edge, with naked stones in the center.

 

The water here evaporated thousands of years ago but the damp edge calls for another lake to come and settle.

 

This is how waves and voices and art work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking is a commitment that gives meaning to the circumstantial possibility of enjoying the world. Every absence treads upon a trace of impermanence, perennial like the green oaks. We walk along the horizon imperceptibly bathed by tears of light which, recognizing the humble gaps of patience, agree to collaborate with our cells. A small, fleeting consciousness that animates solitude in harmony. The melody enters and voice becomes meaning. Where do you sing? In the friendly space offered, in the gentle plot that sustains. Every dawn and every dusk, someone cracks a nut with a stone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The healthy organism lives and moves fluidly, immersing itself in experience with freedom and joy. The poetic state is not the activation of a part of the mind but rather the confidence and courage to feel and perceive our habitat deeply and transparently. Daydreaming is a way of calling to water. When it arrives, we swim.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The memory of pure immersion is what we call paradise. Who knows if anyone on this earth has ever truly lived like this. Perhaps other organized forms anticipated our own nature. Perhaps we are in the process of discovering our greatness.

 

Without fear, I speak of greatness as the most ecological thing that exists. With humility and understanding, we embrace ourselves like water in water, like a habitat in a habitat, banishing from each microscopic space the inertia generated by the subject-object dichotomy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To know oneself in water is to recognize a shared space, our own property-less space. Humans have always focused on the inner emptiness, also known as voice. In every song and in every siesta. In every womb. Outlines expressing in similar ways how within lives that vastness of outside space that overwhelms us. In such a powerful friendship, cries emerged that endure tremblingly in our bodies. In love, we mount the cry of the human animal. We lend ourselves to the restoration of its wave upon its channel. Untamed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I feel them take my hand and immediately I fall asleep. My feet sink into the warm, shallow sand. My breathing takes on the rhythm of the tides. My body is no longer my body but instead a place where people dream. I stretch my legs and the soles of my feet receive the full heat of the sand they press against. In this way I warm my ovaries. If only we could abolish work. I pick up my legs again. The backs of my thighs form a lap with my calves. The powerful soles of my feet share heat with the Earth’s core. The sun, bathing me, completely eliminates the temperature inequality generated by contact and non-contact in the misty hours before writing. I’m not in the sea but rather in the empty basin of the Lendia pools. Small sandbars serve as a beach. It takes a bit to get used to it but it will soon prompt a new movement. The soles of my feet are now colder after having donated their warmth to the center of the Earth and vice versa. My cheeks have become two suns. My coccyx takes advantage of the opportunity to plug itself in deeply. Birds eat my eyeballs. Sitting like this, I open my mouth and sing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The condition of the voice is impenetrable because several rivers converge within it. Bodies bathe in rivers but in some rivers dead bodies are thrown into them. It is the nectar of heterogeneity. A body is an entity, which does not mean it is an organism since an organism is animated by the logic of life. In the threshold, light and shadow neither illuminate nor provide light. The voice carries and drags, and it also throbs and reposes. The voice that comes from the stars, swinging like a bell, has no path.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The defenseless tenderness of one who speaks as they listen, a sing-song that cleanses the ears. There is a breath on the back of the neck, and in the heart swims an orange fish from a pool. Still, faithful water, prey to its loves. A little underground path emerges from the source. There’s a current! The surface runoff doesn’t disturb the pool.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I return to Lendia to listen amongst the rocks. I’ve walked by a sandy area, two sandy areas, and an interval. I’m now closer to the source. Yesterday I sang from cavity to cavity. Today I transcribe the song. “The hermeneut likes the mystery that is neither resolved nor settled.” It is Eddi Circa who sings in my head. It matters not who writes it or who erases it, it reveals nothing about us. We moisten the fog with a thin sheet. The eyelid is so close. The footprints in the sand where deer have passed are damp marks from the night before. We prepare dark matter as a preamble to silence.

 

Breathing in intervals gives meaning to our organs.